


The Lodger

by Violsva



Series: The Landlady [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A Study in Scarlet, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Female John Watson, Gen, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:06:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nurse Jane Watson returns from Afghanistan with a bad shoulder, no money, and no options except to take in a lodger. A very remarkable lodger...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is what comes of being annoyed by [Rex Stout](http://www.hwslash.net/stout.html), and then deciding I'm damned well going to take it seriously.

In the year 1878 I finished my training in nursing at the Nightingale Training School at St. Thomas’s Hospital in London, and proceeded to work for a short time in that hospital. Wishing to travel but bereft of funds, I applied to the army for a position abroad. I was sent to India, but upon landing at Bombay I learned that the second Afghan war had broken out. I followed it into the enemy's country with many medical personnel who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in safety, where I at once entered upon my duties. The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. The medical tent I was in was far too close to the lines, and while fetching water I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I might have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the courage shown by William Murray, a young soldier who threw me across a pack-horse and succeeded in bringing me to safety. He told me his name, and despite my delirium at the time I remember it. I never saw him again.

Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, I was removed to the base hospital at Peshawur. Here I rallied, until I was suddenly struck down by enteric fever. For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that I was sent back to England at once, now useless as a nurse. I landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined and no source of income or ability to find one.

No one should say they were lucky to have a relation die, but on my arrival in London I admit I was relieved to find that I did have a home after all: my wastrel brother Henry had recently succumbed to illness combined with drink, and our parents’ house was the one possession which he had not surrendered, nor even, thankfully, mortgaged, in his steady path downwards. It had passed to me upon his death; however, he had left me no money to keep it up, and so alarming was the state of my finances that I soon realized that I must admit a lodger in order to avoid having to sell the house, which I had some fondness for. Therefore, I cleaned out the upstairs rooms, put advertisements in all the papers I could think of, and resigned myself to the life of a landlady.

It would not have been a natural fit for me even before the war. I told myself, however, that exhausted in body and soul as I was it would be restful, though even then I knew rest was no longer what I wanted.

I received a telegram two days later – it was January 10th – requesting a visit that afternoon to look at the rooms, and confirmed it. At the ring of the bell I answered the door myself; I had only one maid.

“Miss Watson?” The man at the door was such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of determination. He held out his hand, which was mottled with ink-stains and speckled with bits of sticking-plaster. I placed mine in his and, thankfully, rather than kissing it he shook it as he would a man’s.

“Yes,” I said. “You have come about the rooms?”

“Indeed. I am Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “How do you do?” His gaze flicked over my person, not lingering. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”

“How on earth do you know that?” I asked in astonishment.

“Never mind,” said he, smiling. “May I have a look at the rooms?”

“Why, yes,” I said, waving him in. “But Mr. Holmes, it is not the sort of thing a man might guess.”

“You have no other lodgers, I see,” he said, preceding me up the stairs. “This door here?” He held it open for me.

“There is no space for them,” I said. “This would be the sitting room here.” It had been my parents’ bedroom. It was, at least, spacious and well lit, though the furniture, like all the rest in the house, was shabby. He examined the rooms quickly, and accepted the highest price I dared to suggest.

“I should, I believe, warn you,” he said, when I had begun to hope I might have settled my financial difficulties. “I intend to see clients here, for my work; they may be all manner of people, some of them rather queer. That will not be a problem?”

“Not at all,” I said.

“I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you? I shall endeavour not to burn the house down. I am well trained in chemistry. And I play the violin, which my last landlady objected to most strongly. Would you mind it?”

“It depends,” I answered. “A well-played violin is a treat for the gods – a badly-played one -”

“Oh, that's all right,” he laughed. “I think we may consider the thing as settled, if you agree.”

And it was – he advanced me the first month’s rent. I was extremely relieved.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Holmes arrived the next morning with several boxes and portmanteaus, the contents of which he proceeded to unpack and lay about the rooms until they were unrecognizable. I was rather happy with this than otherwise, uncertain how I should have felt to see a stranger occupying my parents’ rooms. But his books and papers and chemical apparatus certainly changed the look of them.

He was not, at least at first, a very difficult lodger. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. Yet as the weeks went by, my interest and curiosity in him gradually deepened and increased. The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody like all landladies, but remember how objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence. And so I occupied myself with the study of my lodger. It was better than going mad.

He spent much of his time at the University of London, but was not studying chemistry, or medicine, or any other science that I could determine. Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable, and within eccentric limits his knowledge was extraordinarily ample and minute. Surely no man would work so hard or attain such precise information unless he had some definite end in view.

His acquaintances, as he said, were very queer indeed, and most varied. He might spend an hour with a young lady dressed in the height of fashion, and then later that day entertain an old pedlar still laden with boxes. Rather frequently he was visited by a little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow named Lestrade, who startled me on his first visit by introducing himself as a police inspector, until he assured me that he had not come to arrest my lodger.

More startling than that, a few weeks after he had taken the rooms he told me very casually, as I was laying out his breakfast, “By the way, Miss Watson, if any man comes to the door and asks for a man you don’t know, kindly do not send him away, but tell him to wait a moment and then come up to me and tell me he is here, and what name he has used.”

I stared at him, my hands stopping their work. “Do you mean to say you are known by false names, Mr. Holmes?”

“Indeed. It is to do with my profession. You surely must know, since you have met Lestrade, that I am not a criminal, so you need not worry that I intend you or anyone any harm.”

“But what is your profession?” I asked, my patience at last at its end.

“Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is. Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault, they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able, by the hold of my knowledge of the history of crime, to set them straight. Lestrade got himself into a fog recently over a forgery case, and that was what brought him here.”

“And these other people?”

“They are mostly sent on by private enquiry agencies. They are all people who are in trouble about something, and want a little enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee.”

“But do you mean to say,” I said, “that without leaving your room you can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although they have seen every detail for themselves?”

“Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about and see things with my own eyes. Observation with me is second nature, and invaluable in practical work. You appeared to be surprised when I told you, on our first meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan.”

“You must have been told, by someone.” Though I couldn’t imagine who.

“Nothing of the sort. I _knew_ you came from Afghanistan. From long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran, ‘Here is a woman who has just come from the tropics, for her face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of her skin, for her wrists are fair. She has undergone hardship and sickness, as her haggard face says clearly. Her left arm has been injured: she holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an Englishwoman have seen much hardship and been wounded? Clearly she has not been a missionary.’ I know you have not been trained to it, but you have a rather military cast to your shoulders. It’s quite a rare thing to find in a woman. Therefore you had been with the army in Afghanistan, probably as a nurse. The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished.”

“It seems simple enough once you explain it,” I said, “but no one else has managed that. What else could you tell?”

I can only imagine I had not been thinking clearly, or I might have had more sense.

“You inherited this house from your elder brother, who inherited it from your father. Your brother was a man of untidy habits – very untidy and careless. He was left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for some time in poverty, and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I could see at once.”

“Mr. Holmes!” The idea that he had been living under my roof, speaking courteously to me, and all the time knowing the history of my brother was horrifying. I attempted to reassure myself that he must have somehow made enquiries into Henry’s life, rather than knowing from the start, though for what purpose I couldn’t guess.

After a moment he realized my horror. “My dear lady, pray accept my apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal and painful a thing it might be to you.”

“But how could you know such things?”

“Merely observation.”

“That’s impossible. You have asked someone about it.”

“I assure you, I did not. I determined your brother’s habits from the state of the steps and railings outside.”

I knew what he meant, of course. I could not afford to have them repaired or repainted. “But how could you even know it was my brother?”

“While the rest of the house shows signs of recent careless treatment: hard scratches on the floors, scrapes at the keyholes, and such – these rooms, which would have been the finest and largest, do not. Therefore he did not use them. So, he must have lived in this house before the previous owner’s death, and had his own room to which he was accustomed. Upstairs, I assume, with yours. Your mother lived in this house for some time after your father’s death, did she not? Excuse me.”

“Not at all,” I said through my teeth. “I see I had better not ask you any more questions, Mr. Holmes. Leave the tray at the door when you are finished.”

I took myself off downstairs, where I paced the sitting room for some minutes before I was calm enough to make myself a cup of tea.

He knew everything, somehow. Everything about my family, which I had never told him, or anyone, probably things about them I didn’t even know myself after two years in Asia. He saw everything – my poverty, the shabbiness and disrepair I had done my limited best to mend, my brother – it was intolerable. Having him as a lodger would be like living with a mind-reader. The handle of my teacup broke.

Luckily I had been holding it while it was still sitting on the table, and I steadied it before it fell. Then I backed away from the table, the kitchen, everything, sat down in the perfect, formal, now rather shabby sitting room, and breathed desperately. It took me a while longer to stretch my breaths out of hysteria. I had never been a woman for hysterics, before I was shot.

The obvious conclusion was that I should ask him to leave, but I had no true reason for it, and more importantly could not afford it. Besides, my spirit balked at such cowardice. I had seen far more frightening things than Sherlock Holmes.

I told myself that I could always send him away in the future. They were relatively good rooms, centrally located – I did not need _him_ , specifically, as a lodger. But I wouldn’t yet. I had no reason to run from him – he had, presumably, known all that since he had moved in, and yet he had treated me quite pleasantly. I would see if I could manage it.


	3. Chapter 3

Some days later a man came to the door with a letter for Mr. Holmes, and I showed him up. I had, despite my intentions, been avoiding conversation with my lodger, but as I let the man out Holmes said, “Ha! Wonderful!” loud enough for me to hear downstairs, and a few second later he was down the stairs, throwing on his coat.

“Good news?” I asked him; his enthusiasm was rather disarming.

“Very,” he said, “I have a case. I may be some time.”

“What has happened?”

“There’s been a murder,” he said, beaming incongruously. “Near Brixton. Scotland Yard has called for me. I expect they shall listen to nothing I say and pocket all the credit when I solve it, but it should be interesting. Good day.”

I had been shocked by his calm reaction to a murder and stood still through all of this, and so found myself staring at a closed door. I shook my head in amazement at it, but if he was to be out of the way I was free to do as I liked with my time, so I did not question it.

He dropped in for a few minutes in the early afternoon, humming some piece of music, but was out again very shortly, and did not return until I was wondering whether it had been a mistake to prepare dinner.

“Thank you,” he said when I brought it up. “That was a magnificent concert. Do you know what Darwin says about music?”

“Ah, no. I though you had a case.”

“Ah, yes, the case. Have you seen the evening paper?”

“No.”

“It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention the fact that when the man’s body was raised up a woman's wedding ring fell upon the floor. It is just as well it does not.”

“Why?” I resolved to read it as soon as possible; I felt ten steps behind him.

“Look at this advertisement,” he answered. “I had one sent to every paper this afternoon immediately after the affair.”

He handed the paper to me and I glanced at the place indicated. It was the first announcement in the “Found” column. “In Brixton Road, this morning,” it ran, “a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Mr. Watson, 221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening.”

“Excuse my using your name,” he said. “If I used my own, some of those dunderheads with the police would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair.” He looked at my face – I don’t think I showed much of my expression, but he added, “I won’t do it again.”

“Thank you. But who do you expect will answer this advertisement?”

“Why, the murderer. If he does not come himself he will send an accomplice.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“Well,” he said, “the ring was found by the body of the murdered man. After the crime, a man was seen in Brixton Road who exactly fits the description of the murderer as I saw from the house in which the body was found. He left after attracting the notice of a police officer. Now, if he is willing to go back to the scene where he has just committed a serious crime for the sake of this ring, it must be extremely important to him. But he may assume he lost it on the way back. Therefore, there is no reason why he would necessarily connect its finding with the murder. And so he is quite likely to answer the advertisement, without fearing a trap.”

“No doubt, Mr. Holmes, but why on earth have you invited him into _my house_?”

“Ah. You needn’t worry over that; you can leave me to deal with him. I shall take him unawares, and I have some skill at such matters. He should be here within an hour. Just show him up.”

“Mr. Holmes -”

“You did say you didn’t object to my seeing queer clients here,” he said, smiling and raising an eyebrow as if inviting me to share a joke. I found myself smiling back.

“I should like a little more warning next time you intend to have criminal guests, if you don’t mind,” I said. It was mad, of course. It was all the more reason to give him notice, probably. But I could not stop smiling.

“I shall endeavour to provide it,” he said, giving me a little half-bow from his chair. “When the fellow comes, speak to him in an ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at him too hard.” I agreed and took his tray downstairs, but after the dishes were washed I retreated to my bedroom and looked through the trunk I had brought back from Afghanistan.

I came down some minutes later feeling far more prepared. When the bell rang, I checked in the hall mirror that I looked just as usual, and then opened the door, not quite certain what to expect.

I was certainly _not_ expecting what I saw: a very old woman, hunched over and wrapped in a shawl. She peered up at me and said, her voice creaking slightly, “There was an advertisement, in the paper, about a ring?”

“Ah – yes,” I said. “That would be my lodger. Let me show you up.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

I stared at her as I started up the stairs. It must be a mistake, I thought, or perhaps two rings had been lost.

Some little time later she came shuffling back down the stairs, and I saw her out with some confusion. The second I closed the door after her I heard Holmes’ door, and then he came down the stairs wrapped in an ulster. “I’ll follow her,” he said hurriedly. “She must be an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me.” Then he was out, without waiting for a reply. I glanced out the window and saw the old woman slowly shuffling along the street, followed at some distance by the rather ludicrous sight of a tall man carefully keeping his pace far slower than was natural.

That was close on nine o’clock. I busied myself reading the account in the evening paper and wondering how Holmes knew what the murderer looked like if the papers said there was no clue. Ten passed, and the maid asked if she could go to bed; eleven, and I made myself some strong tea. A little before twelve he let himself in.

He glanced into my sitting room and said, “That’s done with. It was of no use. Good night.” Then he passed up the stairs.

I had hoped he might have had something to tell me of the mystery, but I did not wish to pry. I went up to bed myself, but long into the night I lay awake, hearing the strains of a violin downstairs. Had I thought it likely I would get any sleep without it I might have complained, but that night I greatly doubted it. Instead I lay awake, pondering, as Holmes must have been, the events of the day and what I knew of the murder.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day my front hall was graced with the presence of half a dozen of London’s beggar children. I was rather shocked when they rang, but the clear leader said, “Mr. Holmes asked us, mum. It’s for the case,” and I let them upstairs.

After they had at last filed out again, Mr. Holmes came down and said, “I do promise, Miss Watson, that in future they will – you do not mind.” His gaze ran over me. “You fed them.”

“Of course I did,” I said. It was not so surprising that he knew it; the tray was still on a side table. “But why were they here?”

“They’re the Baker Street division of the detective police force,” said Holmes. “There’s more work to be got out of one of them than out of a dozen men of the force. The mere sight of an official-looking person seals men’s lips. They are sharp as needles, too; all they want is organization.”

At this point a tall, fair man rang the bell quite hard. The maid came out into the hall looking harried, and I waved at her to go back – it was laundry day, and as I was occupied she and the laundress were short-handed. I was never cut out for a housekeeper.

“Inspector Gregson to see Mr. Holmes,” said the visitor. “Ah, Holmes!” He was radiating an air of combined jubilation and smugness, and he darted forward to shake Holmes’ hand. “Congratulate me!” he said. “I have made the whole thing clear as day.”

A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my lodger’s face.

“Do you mean that you are on the right track?” he asked.

“The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key.”

“And his name is?”

“Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's navy,” cried Inspector Gregson.

Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief and relaxed into a smile. “Come upstairs and tell me about it,” he said. “I am anxious to know how you managed it.”

They went their way, and I – well, I should have been busying myself, there was certainly enough to be done, but instead I paced the sitting room a little, read the new accounts of the mystery in all the newspapers I could find, and answered the door for Inspector Lestrade.

He provided a great contrast to his colleague upstairs. His face was disturbed and troubled, while his clothes were disarranged and untidy. He presented in all ways a picture of utter dismay. “Is Mr. Holmes in?” he asked.

“He is,” I said, and showed him up. He seemed annoyed to see Inspector Gregson already there, and paused in the centre of the room as I attempted to blend into the door frame.

“This is a most extraordinary case,” he said at last. “A most incomprehensible affair.”

“Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!” cried Gregson, triumphantly. “I thought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find the secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?”

“The secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,” said Lestrade gravely, “was murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this morning.”

Gregson jumped to his feet in shock. Holmes merely frowned. “Stangerson too!” he murmured. “The plot thickens.”

Lestrade described his discovery of the scene of the murder. By their reactions it was clear that this could not be unconnected to the first crime. “Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the murderer?” Holmes asked at last.

Inspector Lestrade described the pills he had found, and Holmes leapt to his feet. “The last link,” he cried, exultantly. “My case is complete.”

The two detectives stared at him in amazement. He had Lestrade produce the pills, and nodded. “These are not ordinary pills,” he said. “Their lightness and transparency indicate that they are water soluble. Now, Miss Watson.” He turned to me, and I started. No one, not even Holmes, had shown any signs of noticing my presence, and I had hoped I had gone unseen. But he did not seem at all annoyed. “Would you mind going down,” he said, “and fetching your old bulldog, which you said would soon need to be put out of its pain?”

I went downstairs and carried my dog upstairs in my arms. His laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that he was not far from his end. I placed him upon a cushion on the rug.

“I will now cut one of these pills in two,” said Holmes. He spoke with the attitude of a scientific lecturer, and everyone’s gaze was drawn to him. I went unnoticed again. He dissolved the pill in water and milk, and then placed the mixture in front of Disraeli, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock Holmes’ earnest demeanour was so convincing that the room was silent, all expecting some startling effect. None such appeared, however. Disraeli continued to lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but apparently neither the better nor the worse for his draught. I knew what Holmes had meant when he asked me to bring my dog, of course, and it was rather nerve-wracking to wait and watch.

Holmes seemed to feel quite the same. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience. I was unsure whether to be as anxious as he or indignant on behalf of my pet.

“It can’t be a coincidence,” he cried, at last springing from his chair and pacing wildly up and down the room. “It is impossible that it should be a mere coincidence.” He tried to work it out aloud, at last crying, “Ah, I have it! I have it!” With a perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to my dog. Disraeli barely touched it before he gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and lifeless as if he had been struck by lightning.

Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “I should have more faith,” he said.

“Have you any other need for my dog?” I asked. The police detectives looked startled again at my presence.

“No,” said Holmes. “No, you may take him away, Miss Watson. Thank you very much for your assistance, and I am sorry for your loss.” I lifted Disraeli and took him downstairs, hearing Holmes begin to lecture again as I left.


	5. Chapter 5

I buried Disraeli in the garden, not taking too long about it or attempting to be ceremonial. I had loved him as a girl, but I was no longer a girl, and I did not wish to dwell on the difference in myself. I returned indoors slowly, and was about to make myself a cup of tea when there was a ring at the bell.

It was one of Mr. Holmes’ young “detectives,” the leader. “Cab for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, mum,” he said, touching his forelock. I told him to go up and announce it, and he did, arriving back downstairs shortly. He led the cabman in, “to help with the boxes, mum.”

I was amazed – Holmes had not mentioned he planned on leaving, and he had seemed well settled in his rooms for the day only an hour before. I followed the man upstairs – yes, I know I am incurably curious, but I defy the reader to say she would not have wanted to know how far Mr. Holmes had come along the path to the mystery’s solution.

The cabbie was a large, sullen man, who entered the room as I was on the stairs below. I heard the murmur of voices, and then a sharp snap of metal.

“Gentlemen,” cried Sherlock Holmes, “let me introduce you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson.”

There was a moment of silence, and then a roar and the sound of furniture being knocked over. I heard the shatter of glass as I rushed into the room, and found Holmes, Gregson, and Lestrade all struggling to drag the cabbie back into the room – he had sprung for the window. He was handcuffed, but though they got him inside they could not manage to subdue him. He shook them off several times in an amazing spectacle of strength, though each time they only closed in on him again. Yet it was clear that they could not subdue him on their own.

But after the night before, when I had realized the potential troubles my house might be faced with from my new lodger, I had decided to keep myself ready for such things in future. I snatched the revolver I had acquired in Afghanistan from the pocket of my skirt. I cocked it as the men managed to wrestle Jefferson Hope to the ground, and then stepped up to them while he was mostly still and placed the muzzle next to his temple. “I will shoot,” I said, pitching my voice to carry.

He froze, as did the detectives. Holmes was the first to recover; he jumped up and found a towel with which he tied the prisoner’s legs. After that the official detectives rose to their feet, staring at me.

“I believe you may put away your gun now, Miss Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, “and I thank you for your timely intervention. We have his cab, and it will serve to take him to Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen, and lady,” he continued, with a pleasant smile, “we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome to put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no danger that I will refuse to answer them.”

“My Lord,” said the prisoner, “it _is_ a lady. My compliments, miss. I knew a girl like you, once. I’ll walk down to the cab, if you’ll loose my legs, gentlemen. I’m not so light to lift as I used to be.”

Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances, as if they thought this proposition rather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner at his word, and loosened the towel which he had bound round his ankles. He rose and stretched his legs, as though to assure himself that they were free once more.

“If there's a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you are the man for it,” he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at my lodger. “The way you kept on my trail was a caution.”

“You had better come with me,” said Holmes to the two detectives.

“I can drive you,” said Lestrade.

“Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Miss Watson. You have taken an interest in the case, and as you are largely responsible for its success you may as well stick to us.”

And so we went off to the police station, Gregson and Lestrade still giving me very strange looks. Our prisoner told his story, with a sort of fatalistic desire to be heard, and at last Holmes and I made our way out of the station and took a cab back to Baker Street.

On the way Holmes asked the cabbie to stop at a shop, and when we arrived home he paused in the foyer, holding his overcoat. “No need to prepare dinner, Miss Watson,” he said. “I’ve ordered it. I think you are curious about my side of the investigation?”

“Extremely,” I said.

“Then come up, and we’ll discuss it. But first, where did you get that pistol?”

“Afghanistan,” I said. “It was a present from a wounded soldier.”

“Of course,” he said. “I admit I had no idea. If you will come up, I will answer any questions you may have about my methods.”

I followed him, and shortly a cold supper was laid out for us by a series of men. We finished it and then sat up afterwards, discussing the story and the likely rewards for the official detectives and most of all Holmes’ own methods, which had made everything so clear to him when no one else could see it.

“It is wonderful!” I said at last. “Your merits should be publicly recognized.”

“It is unlikely they will be,” said he. “I told you, Lestrade and Gregson will sew it up between themselves. But never mind; so long as I am able to pay my rent I don’t need much more recognition that that. It is a chain of logic, and not so difficult to follow up.”

“Yet no one else had,” I said. “I, at least, certainly recognize the privilege of a talented lodger.” I laughed. “Even if it is hard on my windows.”

“Ah!” he said. “I’ll pay for that, of course.”

“Thank you. But I did mean it when I said your talents should be recognized. You should write the story up.”

“I hardly think it would be a worthwhile use of my time. I shall content myself with the mere knowledge of success, like the Roman miser:

‘ _Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo  
Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplar in arca_.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote at the end is from Horace (and Doyle): The people sneer at me, but I praise myself/ In my home, while I think of the gold in my chest.


End file.
